Left 4 Dead: Reletive Safety
by Mr. Snarks
Summary: An epidemic from hell leaves the Earth a forgoten wasteland, a hunting ground for the dead. Now, follow the soldiers, the remnents of an army left behind; the hunted. ON HOLD, REWRITE IN PROGRESS. CHECK PROFILE FOR NEWS.


Author's Note- In glorious celebration of Left 4 dead 2, this chapter is coming out extra special long. If there are any future delays, you'll know why. Also, I'm trying a new paragraph format so it's a little easier to read. Tell me if you like it. Enjoy.

Chapter 5

_The Flood Gate_

"_The problem with defense is how far you can go without destroying from within what you are trying to defend from without._"

- Dwight D. Eisenhower

_**R**ecognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high spirit of the Corps of the Rangers._

The room was dark. The walls were the cream hue of whitewashed concrete. The windows were sheathed in their metal blinds for a good reason. The door was locked for a good reason. The man unzipping his gun case for the first time in eight months had a good reason.

The padded, extra length case was black, like the vest and pads he wore. He never liked them. He was a sniper. A Ranger sniper. If a sniper is doing his job right, he shouldn't need the tight, constricting Kevlar plating. It irritated him.

The case unzipped smoothly as it always had, splitting it half way in half, revealing the deadly weapon inside. M40A3 bolt action carbine, modified barrel and stock assembly. His rifle. His life. One of the two things things Martin Meyers trusted; His rifle and his head. If only his spotter had been here today.

That idiot registered for another three year contract. Went and got shot. He got sloppy. He heard he had his head up to high went they were supposed to be low. One bullet. Dead. Idiot. He wouldn't be like him. He would survive.

Martin placed both hands on his rifle, his life, and prayed his own prayer, the one from that old movie. But it belonged to whoever prayed it.

Almighty God,

As my sword

my shield

my high tower

my deliverer,

And the strength in whom I trust,

Let not my enemies pull the trigger.

He delicately removed the rifle from the case. Three sets of ammunition were organized precisely in hidden pockets under it. Only three sets. Roughly thirty rounds, give or take. They'd have to do.

Next, he placed his filtration mask over his face. A sniper wearing a mask with goggles was borderline retarded to him, but he was able to modify the large lenses of the SGE 400/3 mask so he could actually get a bit a depth perception. He liked the mask though. The clear material appealed to him.

Weapon in hand, along with his M9 at his hip, he slipped the case under one one the vests' back straps and moved to the door.

Hesitation, as cowardly as it was, had a funny way of getting to him. He liked it in here. It was calm. Quiet. Outside it was...

Shut up. He slipped the chain out of the door's groove, turned the knob, and, finally, turned the key.

Without further hesitation, he firmly marched outside and down the black grate stairs. Below him, the fucking _rapture_ seemed to be unfolding. The pier stretched about three miles but the factories and boat storage facilities compressed the area into about one half of a mile of asphalt. Three massive construction cranes used for handling the removal of watercraft loomed over the black docks and the increasingly thin line of green and occasional black holding back a writhing mob of civilians.

SWAT, National Guard, and his Rangers had been thrown into this assignment at 3:00 AM this morning. Those on active duty and those on leave, every one in the region that had been yelled at by a drill instructor, was here. And because of these _collaterals_, it didn't look like it would be enough.

He hated civilians. At least he did when he was on duty. In any other circumstance, they would be the most selfless person in the world. Give blood, lend some change, offer a seat on the bus, buy them a cup of coffee. But now, they were faced with threat to life. Not to someone else but to their own.

Now, they reverted to their baser instincts. Survival of the fittest. He had seen first hand how many people who would otherwise be a courteous citizen, trample each other on 9/11. Here, something had happened in the suburbs that radiated into the city.

They never told him. They never told the grunts anything. They didn't even say whether or not he could shoot at them if they act up. He wouldn't wager money on how many non-NCO's were down there, facing stabs, beatings, and the occasional Molotov as they tried desperately to contain what they were trained to protect.

Yeah, some asshole threw a Molotov.

Down there, it was ridiculous. People had, collectively, stated mentally _to hell with them. I want out_. Now, they had to deal with this fucking riot. And he got to sit on these oh so comfortable metal stairs and resist the urge to cap the next son of a bitch that tries something for his own selfish personal safety. Now, it seemed, safety was relative.

---

Capt. Young was already fed up with this situation. And at the same time, felt fear in his gut. These people were at wits end. They were practically killing each other to get to the boat that was supposedly supposed to take all of them somewhere _away_ from whatever the hell these animals had to get _away_ from. That boat wasn't even there. And this madness, this _chaos_, made him shiver.

As he sat on the stone base of one of the crane's legs trying to make some kind of contact with the innermost forces of the city, he looked up and saw Derkins stumble back as a heavyset man tried to push through. Like that would happen. He frowned and quickly stood, revealing his intimidating 6'2'' posture and wiping out his sidearm.

"What the hell is going on here!?"

He pushed past Derkins and pointed the gun right in the man's face, "Wait in line." Pistol raised, he pushed the man away, back into the mob, and pushed Derkins back into his spot in the wall they were trying to establish.

He continued his stroll down the line like a prison guard, pointing out overmanned areas and possible soft spots. Here, the size of the soldier _did_ matter.

He accidentally stepped on his own foot, which, like many others, was sore from being stepped on thousands of times by the civilians. He almost fell into the mob, only to be saved by a rather crazed individual who had taken hold of his vest collar.

"You have to let us through! Those things are back there! I've _seen_ them, god dammit!"

Young just starred in awe at this man's disillusion and then was taken in by the gruesome cut in the face of the Ranger next to him. Though he acted like it wasn't there and fought through it, the cut was still bleeding and had to be deep. Scraps of skin around it shook each time he forced someone back.

Seeing that for some reason filled Young with fear. These men, these soldiers, were sustaining injuries. Real injuries and continued to work because they thought it was just part of what the assignment entitled. But behind their squinted eyes and clenched teeth, they knew that this was all kinds of wrong.

He spotted his Lance Corporal approaching him after helping another Ranger up and putting him into the line. He reached his arm out to beckon Young over, but then a gunshot rang out followed by a shrill slap.

The Corporal's eyes went wide as a cloud of red and gray exploded from the left side of his collar. His eyes rolled up and a thin stream of blood began to flow from his gawking mouth and he collapsed.

Several helmeted heads turned to the now dying man. Young had to keep them in line.

"Don't move! Don't _fucking_ move, keep these people back!" He rushed past the struggling men to the Corporal's side, "Where's a fucking medic!?"

---

The other shoe had dropped. Meyers was now perched on the third landing up on the stairs scaling the side of the warehouse. He saw the gun before it had fired. He should have nailed that asshole when he had the chance. Stupid.

To hell with the protocol. He'd had enough of these fucking civilians man handling the Army. They needed to stop being so fucking selfish and needed to be put in line. Dominance would be established.

Without remorse, hesitation, or forethought, Meyers stared into his cross hairs at the balding man in the suit holding the 38. revolver above his head, and pulled the trigger. He smiled as he heard the bullet sail, enjoying the rush of adrenalin that entered his veins and then heard, the pinpointed packing sound as it found it's mark.

The perp's head shot back and a spray of blood and brain matter sprayed all over the unlucky people around him. He didn't blink until the body fell. To Meyers, the guy's expression was priceless. Maybe, at the sound of the fatal gunshot, the man thought _I think I'm fucking wit the wrong people_. Too late now. Now, if these idiots had any _sense_, they wouldn't try that again.

_**G**__allantly will show the world that I am specially selected and well-trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress, respect to people, and care of equipment shall set and example for others to follow._

---

Young was working on Cpl. Evens when he saw the muzzle flash and heard the distinct zip, followed by the sickening, collective, and deep shattering. Some guy in a suit was holding a gun above his head and just like that, The back of his scalp exploded. His eyes went white, his mouth dropped, and bright blood was painted all over those around him. The women next to him got the worst of it, blood staining here gray business clothes and pieces of brain plastered all over here dark hair. She screamed, tears rolling down her face, and bent down over the dead man.

Not good. These people were already like a cornered animal, dangerous and unpredictable. The Molotov and the bullet that struck Evens were evidence of that.

When his radio began to vibrate against his thigh, he knew who had fired the shot.

Meyers

He hastily opened his hipster and put the device to his ear.

"What in _God's_ holy name are you trying to do!?"

There was an ominous pause followed by a riveting, cold, robotic reply.

_Establishing dominance. _

The transmission silenced.

If Young knew Meyers, which sadly he did, he knew that Meyers wasn't called here. He was here because he wanted to. And now, because he wasn't on military duty, he had just committed first degree murder with a deadly weapon.

But in the back of Young's mind, he _wanted_ that man to die. Because of him, his comrade was bleeding out in his arms. Really, he wanted to call up that psycho son of a bitch and say _Helluva shot, guy!_

No. These were civilians. These were _people_. They had to be saved. And knowing how they had acted before, Meyers' presence will only make the body count higher. He had to be taken in.

Turning to Evens, it was hard to look at him. His eyes were glazed over with the look of death. Spit, bile, and a spiderweb of blood was plastered all over everything on his face from the nose down. Fresh flow from his mouth moved the drying blood around like a river of gore. His neck was hamburger and holding it until the medic arrived was the most disturbing thing he had ever done. It felt like mud and, at this point, was almost the same consistency.

Young closed his eyes and released his hands only for a second and quickly grabbed the unbuttoned ends of his high collar and used them to put pressure on the wound. Young looked down for a moment to wipe off one of his hands and saw that Evens' foot was twitching. His dying hands were griping into his arm so tight it had broken the skin.

He heard a voice, "Sir, I...Jesus..."

The medic had finally put his ass on the line. The Corpsman relieved Young of the gruesome job, handling it with much more enthusiasm.

"What happened to him, sir?"

"Don't worry about it, worry about what _will_ happen to him."

The Captain slowly stood, wiping his blood stained hands on his woodland fatigues. Now, he needed to deal with the rogue vigilante with a high powered rifle.

Under the crane, the Rangers had set up a tent to serve as their improvised base of operations. Inside, a squad of SWAT team members had offered their skills, but were told to stand back and let the Army do it's job.. Well, now they _did_ need some guys who were trained to deal with people like Martin Meyers.

Inside, five SWAT and two Rangers were crowding around the table witch held some map Young hadn't seen yet. The SWAT team's gear was bulky and their plating made it difficult to find a spot around the table. As he entered, the apparent squad leader, a tall, built black man, approached him looking dead serious.

"We heard a gunshot."

"I've got a rogue Ranger on top of," Young pointed in the general direction of the warehouse, "that building with a sniper rifle. He picked off the guy who shot one my men."

The Sargent signaled his team who, all at once, leaned up and picked up their CAR-15's. One of them, decidedly the youngest, was still pulling on his balaclava and helmet when everyone else was moving out the door.

As the rookie pulled out his MP-5 and moved out himself, Young looked to the officer, who was the last to leave.

"Remember. This guy shot marksman on his first day in basic. He's _good_." It almost hurt to say it, but it was painfully true.

The Sargent nodded, clipped his neck strap, and was gone.

---

"Form up. Keep yer shit wired _tight_."

The SWAT Sargent trailed the line of black armored officers as they approached the side entrance of the massive factory. This guy thinks he can kill whoever he wants. He's wrong.

The four of them slammed against the building around the steel door, two on each side. The one farthest from the knob pulled out his shotgun and pumped it. The Sargent leaned low beside the man and patted him on the back, "Go, _go_, breach, _breach_!"

With rugged efficiency, he stepped away from the group and in front of the door and fired into the upper door hinge, which exploded into a cloud of sparks and dust. He pumped again.

The second shot hit the lower hinge and in turn caused the whole door to topple down with a crack. The officers piled in one by one.

Inside, it was, in a word, creepy. The shadows seemed to churn and elongate in the newly created light. The shadows of the squad spun and deformed on the floor and walls. The perfect place for a seasoned marksman.

"Stay alert."

The ground floor was barren. Inside, the factory seemed less than half of it's outer size. Inside, there was an office to the right and a grate stair well that connected to a catwalk. Anything beyond that was hidden by the inky darkness.

The Sargent turned to his men and pointed to his eyes and then to the catwalk, "Eyes on."

"Sargent?"

"What is it?"

"You might want to take a look at this."

Turning to his left, he almost jumped, seeing a pair of legs stretching out of a shadow cast by the office room. One of the officers was standing at the edge of the shadow, waiting for the Sargent.

He carefully approached the find, head cocked to the side. From what he could see, the legs were identical to theirs. Sarge extracted a yellow flashlight from his overloaded belt, held it up and clicked it on.

It beam of light revealed the body of a fellow SWAT officer slumped against the wall of the office. Blood had pooled and smeared around the man's legs and splattered against the wall and ran down from where he was hit to where was now.

Closer inspection showed that three deep...claw marks stretched across his vest. It was heavily plated Voucher tactical gear, and whatever got him had cut right through it, revealing a Constantine of ruptured veins and torn flesh, which had leaked out of the cuts and drizzled down the front of the Kevlar. He wore a mask which hid most of his features but behind his goggles, there were lazy, vacant eyes, half rolled into his limp head.

"Damn..." someone uttered.

"What did that?"

"Freddy Crouger."

"Stay sharp."

---

Oh shit. This was bad. This was _real_. Parko, aka "The Rookie", which was typed on the back of his vest, pulled down his balaclava and wiped his mouth with his rough gloved hand. He was young, not yet even requiring a razor in his life, but seeing this made him feel like he was in the same league as the other guys, the "Oldies".

He felt like the new guy. Everyone else was in their late twenties. He was twenty and treated as such.

The others would say he was crazy, but Rick was right about the Freddy Crouger thing. There might be something else here. A fucking monster or something. Earlier today, before being yanked out of his home, he heard these reports-

"Parko."

He pulled his mind out of the gutter, pulled up his mask, and turned to Sarge.

"Go with Lopez and Boil and secure the catwalk. If that bastard's here, I wan'im _found_."

"Roger."

This was real.

---

Sarge watched the men marched off, weapons leveled and moving in sync with their eyesight with precise proficiency. He heard the sound of Mariner checking the body. He heard the sound of Boil, Parko, and Lopez marching quickly up the stairs.

Then he heard a soft yet unsteady noise. He echoed from the darkness, like a warning. Mariner looked up to him, hearing the noise and reaching for his shotgun. Sarge readied his CAR-15.

"We might have a survivor."

Now that he thought about it, the noise sounded like...crying.

---

"Give me a sitrep on the wounded."

"Of the four we had, three are unresponsive. It doesn't look good for them."

"And Evens?"

"His nerves are still quieting down, but I couldn't save him sir."

Young removed his helmet and placed it on the table over the map. It was s chronological map of some kind, but he didn't care about the city. Hell, they were holding back a city. They were fighting against the people they'd sworn to protect. And one was dead.

They'd taken the dead man's body and loaded it into the sickbay in the back room of the tent. In there, they had four civilian casualties, the slain gunman being the only confirmed collateral damage. The medics were still working on the other three.

Young ran his fingers through his very thin crew cut. They couldn't keep holding back a whole city of scared, potentially dangerous people with an overzealous sniper watching over them.

They had lost all possible contact with the city. When the men informed him of the smoke rising in the distance, he decided that action needed to be taken.

"Lt. Chase, with me."

"Sir?"

They exited the tent, both of them putting on their headgear while trying to balance their weapon sling on their shoulders. Young sat down at the foot of the crane again with Chase looking down at the map he was unrolling.

"They way I see it, whatever's happening is radiating from his area, Mercy Hospital. Before any further action is taken, I want you to ready the men for a gas out."

"Yes, sir."

"Next, I want you to assemble a scout team. Go to the boarder _here_ and establish a CP. Make sure you have a solid fallback. I wanna know whats goin' on down there."

"Yes, sir."

"Grab some guys and round up some compliant citizens that were here within the last eight hours. Take quotes, statements, sob stories, anything you can to find intel, 'cause right now, this intel's as good as last year's horoscope."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you a tape recorder?"

"No, sir."

"Just checking."

Young rolled up the map and gave it to the lieutenant, who just folded it and stiffed it in his pocket. He stood and began to make his way to the tent, "Tell the doc's to give me a yay/nay on the casualties."

"Yes, sir."

"And where the hell is that SWAT team?"

---

Parko scrambled out of the chaotic, screaming darkness covered in pieces of flesh, trying to balance on his one good foot, the other having been torn off from the ankle down and painting a river of red across the already organ stained floor. His vision was shaking uncontrollably. He sputtered and vomited and crashed to the floor beside the dead body Rick found earlier.

He wiped out his silenced MP-5 and fired at the thing that killed everyone right in front of him. He saw it's slender, predatory form charging, claws out, from the dark. Parko screamed as he rapidly fired the last few bullets.

It was right on top of him now. He released his glock and fired at the creature, screaming and grunting with each useless shot. Before it clicked empty, the "dead body" grabbed the ear plate of his black helmet and began to pull.

Officer Tony Parko let out one last agonizing scream as both the body and the Witch preyed down on him.

---

Pvt. Derkins had been holding these people off for a good three hours. He was tired, hungry, and bruises were raising below his combats. And on top of that, some unlucky SOB was the victim of a head shot. A damn good one too.

Keeping his elbows bent and arms in front of him like a wall, he quickly scanned the surrounding buildings. No dark shapes, unusual movement, or the glint of a scope. This guy had a pretty good spot wherever the hell he was.

Before he had time to react, he felt a stabbing pain in his left arm, which dissipated into a numbing warmth. Looking down he realized he had been stabbed.

With eyes of anger and annoyance, he turned to the man in front of him, wearing faded jeans and a leather jacket. He had a black hunting knife in his hand which was rearing back for another blow.

Why in the hell were they protecting these guys?

Before the felon could administer another jab, Derkins brought his padded elbow down into the man's nose, shooting his head back as a thin rope of blood looped out of his face.

Derkins knew that a good blow to the nasal cavity would send pieces of bone flying into the brain for a quick and easy kill. Had he killed this man? He was now being held up by two others, probably his buddies. They glared at him with hate.

Derkins stepped back and felt his wounded limb, which was now letting off a pretty good stream of fluid. He needed to tag out.

He stepped back and patted Lingsy on the shoulder, signaling him to take his place.

Geez, that guy really got him good. He had to find Doc Roe, he'd patch him up. Unless he was still studying the bodies.

On his way to the tent, Capt. Young stopped in front of him, "You hit, Ranger?"

"Sir..." Derkins paused, wondering what to say. "Sir, I was shanked, _sir_."

Young patted his shoulder plate, "Find Doc and get cleaned up. And grab your scud gear."

"Sir?"

"I've come across an outbreak map in the tent."

After that, the Captain moved past him. Derkins paid no mind and entered the tent, holding his bleeding arm. When he stepped inside, a few small drops fell from his fingertips and hit the floor.

He passed the two lieutenants leaning over a map and walked into the "morgue". Inside, there were seven white tables, two with folded sheets stacked on them and five occupied by the dead civilians and one dead Ranger. Two, the most recent, had bloodied sheets over their faces; the only two men Doc Roe couldn't save.

The other three looked beyond saving. They looked pretty far gone. Doc was leaning over one of them, his medical chest beside him on the foot of the bed.

"Doc? Doc Roe?"

The Corpsman straitened and turned, revealing a face hidden by a gas mask and the sliced open body on the table, half hidden by a sheet. He reached into one of the two large green pouches that ran down his thigh, pulled out another mask and tossed it to Derkins.

"Put this on. These bodies aren't healthy."

"What?"

"Open wound?"

"Oh yeah, I got nicked-"

Roe quickly made his way to him and jabbed a needle into his arm, just above the jagged cut. He pressed the syringe and shot him full of some kind of antiseptic.

"Ouch!" Derkins stated in a _what the hell?_ sort of tone.

"Standard precautions for entering a sick bay. Why isn't your mask on?"

Derkins shot a questioning look then hastily strapped on the mask.

"Doc, I don't think you need to worry about these guys getting sick."

Doc stepped back, shoulders broad and strait, wiping his hands an tossing the needle into the trash bin, "How so?"

"Their _fucked_ from the _neck_ _up_."

Doc Roe smiled a confident toothy grin and chuckled. He had a very odd swagger despite the current situation. He stepped back, still facing Derkins and pulled the foot of the sheet back to reveal the leg of the dead man.

It was twitching.

---

Capt. Young had his rifle out and ready, dialed at the mad crowd that was starting to bust the human dam. Limbs were breaking through and shaking at them wildly. Something had to be done now, or this barricade wouldn't last much longer.

Looking around him, it was a dark scene as unsure young soldiers slowly raised their weapons against the people who just wanted to get to safety. But there wasn't any boat to run to. Would they swim all the way to Spain? Judging from the looks on their faces, they looked willing to do just that.

Enough was enough. He'd take matters into his own hands.

"Nixon, get me a radio."

"Right here, sir."

He took the bulky device from the Ranger's backpack and put it to his ear, checking his tritium watch. He adjusted the frequency and began to call for help.

"Thunder 1-1, this is Bravo 6-4, we are unable to hold the line. Repeat, we are unable to hold the line."

Static.

Young sighed and tried another channel.

"Bravo 6-4 to Voucher Blue-2, we are in need of a medevac and craft for precious cargo, over."

More static.

"Is anybody out there?"

...

"Hello?"

It was futile. The Captain gritted his teeth and took a bead on the person he thought would brake through first. It was hard to think it had come to this.

He called to Nixon.

"Take Maurice and get me a sitrep on that SWAT team. They're way the hell overdue."

Then, he felt a hand on the shoulder of his vest. He instinctively spun weapon ready and saw he was pointing his M4 in the face of his medic. He seemed unfazed by the weapon.

"Captain?"

"Doc?"

"If I could speak to you in private, it concerns the casualties."

"Not now Roe, we have a _city_ to hold."

Neither the private, the Captain, or the inquisitive medic were aware of the eyes watching them from above.

---

Inside the morgue, Pvt. Terry Derkins was lying completely still on a freshly cleared bed. His peripheral vision was gone, washed away by the injection Doc Roe had given him. His eyesight was blurry and unfocused. What the hell had the Doc given him?

He felt like a lab rat about to be experimented on. He could see the look in Roe's eyes as he casually strolled out of the sick bay. He was planning to cut him open, mess with him, see what made him tick, and compare him to the quivering bodies around him.

That bastard had no right. He couldn't do this to him. He didn't want to die, not like this, doped and fileted by a crazed Army doctor.

He just wanted to go home, back to Manhattan. He wanted to arrive on his Mom's doorstep in his dress uniform and tell her he was okay. He wanted to see him girlfriend and kiss her and hug her and promise her he'll protect her. But maybe she was out there. Maybe the sniper had shot her.

He just wanted to get out of this damn room.

The Captain ignored the technical med-school jargon Roe was tossing at him. It was like he had no idea what was happening.

Lingsy, the one European Ranger in the company, was at his side to, wondering what had happened to Derkins.

"Weh th'_bloody_ 'ell's the man run away too?"

Roe spoke up quickly, "He's currently incapacitated."

"Why, did the fuckah' shoot up 'fore he nicked'im?"

There hapless conversation was cut off when something behind the mob exploded. The blast erupted like an earthquake, shaking all of them to their core and soon, fire wrapped in smoke reached up past the crowd and into the overcast sky. Spikes of black grew and morphed as the breeze blew through them, carrying the sickening smell of rot and death.

Lingsy clasped the goggles on his helmet as he held the mouth piece of his mash over his face, muffling coughing and cursing. All faces, civilian or otherwise, were fixated on the area behind them.

This made it impossible for Young, Lingsy, or any of the other Rangers to see the fleshy appendage that snaked down from above them and coiled around Roe's neck. It constricted, cutting off the circulation to his head and slowly began to choke him.

He was lifted off his feet and felt like someone had tied a noose around his neck and activated the trapdoor below him. Only he was being pulled _up_. There was no sudden stop to break his neck as he suffered all the way up the side of the crane.

He reached out with a weak arm to the Rangers below him. He tried to scream, but it wouldn't let him.

Whatever was doing this knew enough that the wheezing and gagging of its victim would alert his comrades. It swung the leathery lasso forward and let itself carry the weight back to the crane.

Doc Roe had no idea this was happening. The last things he would remember would be the black dots swirling over his vision, the sudden lunge forward, and the muffled crack.

Roe's body impacted the steel frame of the crane, effectively breaking his neck. The Smoker let out a low gurgling moan as it reeled in its prey.

---

Martin Meyers looked through his cross hairs at the fiery hell that used to be a propane tanker. Great. Maybe know we'll see what the hell caused all of this nonsense.

The explosion was pretty significant and created a thick smokescreen at the entrance of the pier. He couldn't see jack _shit_ through it.

Then, silhouettes began to form from the twirling shadows of the abyss. More fucking people? Did they blow up a fuel truck this time?

No, these figures were moving fast. They were aggressive, fixated, and hostile in appearance. The black shapes were running so fast that their bodies were almost parallel to the ground. Then, the first shadow exited the smoke.

From what Meyers could see, he was a firefighter. He wore and unzipped yellow jacket and a black undershirt with an oxygen mask hanging around his neck, shaking like a leaf as he ran and orange cargo pants. His eyes were wide with apparent rage, green veins shown through his gray and bruised skin, and one of the worst neck wounds Meyers had head ever seen spilled bright red blood down the front of him.

It stained the yellow coat in a hot orange and stained the black shirt a deep shinning maroon. His fingernails were broken and tan pigmented. This guy was fucked up.

The ones that followed him didn't look any better. One guy, some kind of executive, had all the skin from his ear to his jaw torn and hanging off. His mouth was misshaped from the gruesome injury, resulting in a terrifying grimace that leaked saliva and vomit.

After him, a women charged out of the inky haze, her head partially caved in above her right eye. To Meyers, her face seemed to harbor a sinister smile of broken teeth that went well with her right pupil, which was grayed out and permanently lodged upward. Her skin was equally pale. Her thigh was bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound.

After those three, a congregation of the dying, bleeding, and mangled masses poured out of the smoke, running faster than he ever could, limbs flailing. It was a parade of insane slasher victims, some that looked freshly dead and some that looked like they were dug up from the crypt before they began to run. Meyers blinked when he saw that several were missing limbs.

One man in a loose white tank top and green shorts looked like he had all the skin on the right half of his face eaten away and his arm was twice as thin as it should be, a disturbing appendage of bright red ravaged muscle tissue and dripping gnawed flesh. His left arm was completely gone, now just a mangled stump, rugged and torn like the bark of a tree.

Meyers left his jaw hanging as he slipped another bullet into the chamber.

"What. The. Fuck."

---

"Fow'ard, _moof'et_!" Lingsy shouted, pointing at the new arrival of people. At least what Young _thought_ were people.

This new army was like a bad dream.

Unlike the citizens they were now trying to move behind them, these people looked like they should be dead. They were a shambling, out of mind collage of decayed skin and bloody, ripped clothing. He could tell from first site that this was about to get much worse than it already was.

Nixon arrived by his side and clung to his shoulder, getting right in his face.

"_Sir_, what _are_ they!?" his asked in a choked tired voice.

"I don't know," Capt. Young sighted his rifle down the pier, "but keep them _away_ from the civilians."

Then, Young watched in horror as one of the attackers caught up to one of the normal people and drilled him in the back of his shoulder, throwing them both to the ground rolling. As the helpless man struggled, shrieking in pain, the thing began to bite into his neck and chest cavity, spilling red all over the man's shirt.

The monster forcefully grabbed the man's face and pressed his head to the ground and began to dine on the victim's fully exposed throat. His screams degenerated into gurgling, choking whimpers.

Young almost dropped his weapon. But before he could, Nixon did it for him and fell to one knee and vomited at Young's feet, who was still staring at the carnage.

What in God's name was happening?

As if hearing his thoughts, the monster instantly lost interest in his meal and jerked his head up to stare directly at the Captain, its lower jaw outstretched fully and eyes wide. It let out an ungodly cry and it's eyes squinted becoming fierce. It quickly stood, charged over the mutilated body and began to close the distance between them.

Time to do what soldiers were trained to do. Kill, quickly and efficiently. Young raised his M4 with a recited expertise and aimed down the MOA4 scope.

Holding his breath, he steadied the red dot on the creature's chest. It was rapidly growing in his gun sight. He pulled the trigger, squeezing off two rounds. But he forgot that rifles aim high, which resulted in an accidental neck shot.

The savage's neck exploded, shooting a red cloud around it's collar area. The momentum of it's sprint caused its body to slide into a close-line motion and smash into the ground. He knew he must have snapped its spine as he gave to further movement.

He let out a breath as the Rangers around him began to empty their mags into the oncoming crowd. Only a few off them actually downed their targets. He observed several of them take half a clip in the chest, stumble, and keep going. Only a few went limp and fell, only to be trampled by their "comrades".

He felt something light but thick patting his left sleeve cuff. He looked at his wrist to find that it was dark fluid, beading up on his waterproof jacket.

He looked up now to see another figure like the ones ahead of him only taller and...sickly looking. It was chowing down on another Ranger who's corpse resembled the wall after a long game of _Breakout_, chewed and eaten away. The one eating looked at him and slowly opened its mouth to let out a cancerous, raspy screech.

---

Personally, this is what Meyers looked forward to doing today. Not just because he loved to squeeze off a good clean kill, but to get some payback. Nobody fucks wit the Army Rangers.

_**E**__nergetically will meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on a field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall in the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country._

He had five 7.62 bullets in the small belt that he had hanging out of the bolt-lever mechanism, a little invention he took pride in. the M40 carbine was designed for single precise shots. Here, that wouldn't be quick enough. It wouldn't be _effective_. So he created a five shot belt that would slip another bullet into the chamber with each expelled casing.

He loved watching his enemies die through his scope. It was a truly empowering feeling.

He pulled the lever up, back, forward, and locked it down again.

Through his scope, he did the obvious; taking down the closest threats first. Through the lens, he sighted a police officer in riot gear. The glass face mask was shattered so well that the face was hidden by a tangle grove of cracks. The visor was stained with smeared blood. His vest and shin guards were hanging off, creating a comical sight as he ran like a retarded umpire. But he was running strait towards him. It would be any easy kill.

He pulled, no, _squeezed_ the trigger.

The glass exploded into a glittering mist, revealing the ravaged face behind it. Tiny dots of red amassed into a grainy cloud behind his head as the bullet sliced through his nose and exploded out the back of his head. His limbs twirled as he fell back on his ass.

Lever; up, back, forward, down. He loved that sound of the mechanism, that satisfying repetition.

Meyers also loved the full metal jacket rounds he used. He'd never know why the military listened to those hippies at the Geneva Convention and stopped using them, but continued to sell them to civi's and law enforcement. They said they were "too wounding".

With all do respect to those tree hugging dope smokers, wasn't that the _point_?

Before the body hit the ground he moved his sights to another target, creating a temporary blur. It subsided and revealed a rather attractive dark woman in a nice red dress and torn black jacket. He saw no injuries, but blood was flowing from her mouth.

She was running _away_ from him, into the upper left of his scope. He'd have to lead the shot.

He placed the center of the cross hairs just ahead of her forehead and squeezed off another round.

It landed perfectly, just behind where he had aimed, blowing through her tempo, resulting in little material spray but several flying chunks of skull and clods of hair. The momentum close-lined her and she hit the ground hard.

Two kills, perfect headshots. Go for more.

Next he sighted another guy in a punk rock shirt and ripped jeans that were covered in scribbles. He was missing a chunk of his chest, showing the ribcage clearly and dripping. He was missing his left forearm, which squirted ropes of fluid with each stride, painting the ground below him. His head was shaved and his mouth looked like it was beaten thoroughly before..._this_ happened. Apparently the Bloods were taking it now. Fuck'im.

He was charging right across his vision at a good pace. He led the sight half a centimeter past his face and pulled the trigger. There was a shrill _zip_ and then a dull thump as the bullet carved through his eye socket and exploded out behind his ear, creating a fair amount of flying bone, brain matter, and blood.

He face planted the concrete, his legs still twitching. Not acceptable. He put another round through the back of his head, instantaneously shooting a stain of red around his head that had to be a meter long. He was still.

He had one more to spend. He saw two running close together, one in a jogging suit and bleeding from the neck and one in a _normal_ suit who was covered in blood but was still in one piece. They were just close enough to...

Could he?

He sighted the jogger, aiming about half and inch ahead of the mangled pair and fired.

The shot tore straight through the suit mans head and blew a good chunk off of the back of the joggers scalp.

The suit man crumpled to his side but the jogger was still in a spasm on the ground, trying to get up but mindlessly tripping over himself.

Two for one.

Meyers actually laughed out loud. 37 seconds. He released the belt and removed another from his case.

He could do this all day.

---

In the sick bay, Derkins had lost all control over his body and he was forced to lie still on the bed.

He heard the gunshots outside and the screams and the stomping of feet. He could hear the Captain dishing out orders. He should be out _there_, not in this graveyard. His CAR-15 was on the tray next to him. If he could just _reach_ it...

Suddenly, he heard the squealing a tortured springs. Bed springs. Then a violent shuffling. He tried with all his might to turn his head, to just work the joints to get his face to fall to the side. He was tired of this view of the white tent ceiling.

He harnessed all of his strength and lunged his brow to the left, trying to move his head. No good. Whatever the hell Doc Roe had given him, they had to make tranquilizer out of it some day.

He heard another tray topple over, spilling little tools and breaking glasses of liquids.

He had to get out of _here_.

He tried again to move his head to the side. Then, he found he could still moved his fingers. Finally, some progress. He gripped the sheets and tried to turn his body. After several failed attempts, he got his upper half to roll over, not exactly comfortable, but enough.

His vision was still fucked over. He blinked, trying to alleviate the odd affect.

Then he heard a feral growl.

There, sitting up from the operating bed Doc Roe had put him on, was the dissected body. It had a puzzled look on it's face. Its jaw was forward and his eyes were wide.

Derkins coughed.

The thing quickly turned and saw him. It's eyes lit up with rage, its brow crunching together. It's mouth opened wide like a vicious predator, leaking blood. It gave off a foul stench and then a disgusting cry.

This, to the Private's horror, raised all of the cadavers to glare at him. The first one scrambled out of the bed. When it got to it's feet, several of it's organs slid out of it's open chest cavity and stomach area, hitting the floor in a repeating vomit-inducing _smack_. It's spine was fully exposed, but it seemed unfazed.

The one next to his bed rose quickly, it's head still looking to the ceiling. It slowly rolled it's head with a disturbing smile on his face. It then turned to look at Derkins.

Soon they were all awake and they charged him, piling on him and creating the worst pain Derkins would ever feel.

They bit and scraped and clawed at his ACU's and vest until they just slid off and then they started to tear him apart, starting with his gut. He could hear the ripping and the wet shredding noises. He felt like someone was taking a hundred matches and burning them on his chest.

As a tear rolled down his cheek, he wondered if his girlfriend was wearing the red dress he had bought her for her birthday...

---

Lingsy had seen bio-warfare when he was serving in Ireland. The IRA had found a cache of Sarin mortar rounds and began to pound his encampment. It was funny. Before that day, his biological engineering consultant or the "Chem Master" as they called him, said that the nerve gas would "make you dance the funky chicken until you choke on your own tongue."

He wished that was all it did. Now...this was almost as bad as what he'd seen. These people weren't screaming.

Lingsy kept spitting a stream of curses as he pumped round after round into the rotted congregation of hell minions.

"Son off'a _fucking_ _bitch_!"

One squeeze, five rounds. The guy in the blue raincoat looked like he was hit by a paintball gun as the red blots appeared all over his chest. The bastard actually leaned into the volley and kept going. He fired three more, finally emptying his clip.

Then, the side of the fuckers ugly head quickly tilted to the side and a spray of blood shot out of the side of his face. He fell to the side motionless. The fucking looney sniper must have got him. Right now, he felt like he could buy that man a pint.

Then, he saw the most peculiar, terrifying, and disturbing sight he had ever seen. The black fog from the tanker explosion had lightened into a gray mist which had given birth to these monsters. People were still running away from that cloud when it started happening.

Ropes, lassos, tentacles, whatever the hell they were, they shot out from the mist and grabbed some poor bastard and yanked him back in.

One woman got caught at the waist and was dragged back. She was screaming and clawing at the ground as it happened.

Another man was grabbed at the waist and violently pulled back, snapping his spine. Lingsy could almost hear the crack.

Looking around him, things were turning into a nightmare. He felt like the guy in the beginning of _Saving Private Ryan_, the world around him silent and chaotic.

The Ranger a few meters to his right was firing wildly until one of the things got to him and began wrestling with him as they stood. The Ranger tried to use his weapon as a defensive club, but the creature forced his arms up and began biting into his shoulder. Another creature arrived and began to feast on the poor man's arm. Together, they pulled him to the ground and began to viciously maul him to death.

To his left, the soldiers were retreating and two were attacked from behind as they ran, and were torn apart as they lay on their faces, flailing to get away.

He couldn't this anymore. He ran. He ran back to the tent. He would hide. He he would grab his buddy Derkins and get the fuck out of here. He would _survive_.

He was half way to the tent when he heard a mad roar and a small earthquake. He didn't turn to look at what Satan had dished out this time.

He entered the tent only to find one of those things, in the form of a lieutenant, lumbering around the entrance to the sick bay.

It had reached farther than he thought. What the hell was safe now?

Lingsy thought fast and dove behind a stack of crates that would easily provide protection. He pressed his knees to his chest and folded one arm around them, placing the other on the hilt of his sidearm.

At the entrance to the sickbay, the reanimated lieutenant quickly turned, revealing his mutilated stump of a lift arm and donning the same questioning expression. Green veins and eyes added to the trance-like affect.

Lingsy said a silent prayer. HE wasn't a religious man, but he could use some godly, omnipresent entity right now. He made himself as small a possible.

_You don't fucking see me, you don't fucking see me you ugly mother fucker._

He heard slow, steady footsteps coming towards his hiding spot.

Step. Step.

He sucked in a long breathe and held it.

Step.

He unbuttoned the strap on his holster.

Step.

Lingsy closed his eyes.

...

Nothing.

He opened his eyes again and saw something odd: a small stain of blood and the floor.

Then, he saw the thing leaning over it, inspecting it. It looked over.

Three gunshots. One scream followed by the sound of rending flesh.

---

Capt. Young saw the several creatures go down, a result of Meyers' brilliant and deadly skill with that rifle. Right now, he was as much of an comrade as anyone else here. They now shared a common enemy.

But the civilians were beyond saving. The ones that didn't make it past the line were either mauled or dragged back into the mist by the fucking tentacles. It was a terrifying sight you'd expect to see in an old horror movie or a new one with a high budget.

He fired six rounds at the trio charging him about thirty meters ahead. One shot hit one creature in the leg and then another in the shoulder. He stumbled and fell, but began to get up. Three hit one in the chest and it went limp. It continued to ferociously crawl. The round on hit one in the arm, producing zero results.

Was this where he was condemned to die? On some pier in the Queens, killed by mutants or zombies or whatever the hell these things were?

Suddenly, he saw a chunk of concrete fly through the air and hit the bloodstained ground by the factory, smashing two of the monsters. One of them was still kicking as it tried to free its leg from the rock. What did it fucking take to kill these things? Was it a headshot? Did Meyers _know_? Or was he just going for the head because he _could_?

He was taken from his thoughts when something...else came out of the smoke. It was huge, muscles swelling against tearing skin and bleeding sores and scabs amassing at his knuckles. Its arms were incredibly enhanced in muscle mass and red and green veins bulged out against the already tight pressed flesh. Scraps of torn skin hung off of it and shook with each "skip" it took with it's arms. It looked a zombie Hulk. A tank.

Before he could come to terms with what he was seeing, a wet, spongy rope snatched his ankle and pulled. He dropped his M4 and was then dragged across the pier. He slid past half eaten corpses, slid through pools of blood and finally, past the first creature he killed. It was alive.

It slowly reached to him and gargled a roar as he slid away.

He was going towards the Hulk thing. This was it.

The last thing he would see would be the giant bleeding fist coming down on his face. The last thing he would hear would be all of his skull, eyes, and teeth smashing in response.

---

One infected Ranger. One bullet, placed just ahead of his face. One squeeze of the trigger.

The creature jerked backwards as the bullet seemingly curved and landed just below the things right eye socket.

That tallied it up to ten kills.

He wished he could laugh, but seeing his Rangers being torn to pieces was too much. Rangers didn't die like this. Rangers didn't _die_.

He wouldn't die. But seeing that thing down there was a pretty good bet against that. He had about twenty bullets left. He couldn't stay at this turkey shoot all day. Soon, the whole fucking city would be all over him.

He supposed that he could blow up the stairs, camp up here until help arrived. But after taking alook inside, this place wasn't all that safe either.

He would leave. Find a defensible location and stay put. Maybe even rescue of people. He removed the rosary from under his shirt and prayed.

_**R**__angers lead the way!_

Author's Note- Well, this is the last chapter of Relative Safety I'm publishing for now. As I said before, I'll be going on a hiatus until after Christmas. Hopefully, this chapter is packs enough of a punch to wet hold you all over until December 26th. This is one of the few times I will actually ask that you review this story. Over the break, I'll check my e-mail and see if I can't get some feedback. I'd just like to see if you guys had any ideas, opinions on the direction of the story, or criticism. I'll look over them over the Christmas season and start fresh after the holidays. I'm glad that this story has become so popular and I would like to give special thanks to **A Flying Tomato**, for being with me from the beginning. You rock.

Also, to clear some things up, the bits of italicized "prayer" that Meyers ponders are bits of the official Ranger Creed.

If some of this dialogue sounds like it's out of a seventh graders notebook, it's because this portion is based around the thoughts of the characters.

Yes, I know Martin Meyers is a pompous asshole. That's why I like him. I hope I didn't come on to strong trying to establish his skill as a sniper (I think the 'double kill' thing was a little over the top...).

I hope you guys like the new paragraph format because this is how it will be set up from now on.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,

Mr. James "Skippy" Snarks


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